The top sergeant who had preceded the battery into the town, galloped up to the captain upon our entry and presented him with a sheaf of yellow paper slips, which bore the addresses of houses and barns and the complements of men and horses to be quartered in each. This was the billeting schedule provided by the French major of the town. The guns were parked, the horses picketed and the potato peelers started on their endless task. The absence of fuel for the mess fires demanded immediate correction.
It was a few minutes past noon when the captain and I entered the office of the French Town Major. It was vacant. The officers were at déjeuner, we learned from an old woman who was sweeping the commandant's rooms. Where?—Ah, she knew not. We accosted the first French officer we met on the street.
"Where does the Town Major eat?" the Captain inquired in his best Indianapolis French. After the customary exchange of salutes, introductions, handshakes and greetings, the Frenchman informed us that Monsieur Le Commandant favoured the pommard, that Madame Larue served at the Hôtel de la Fountaine.
We hurried to that place, and there in a little back room behind a plate-cluttered table with a red and white checkered table cloth, we found the Major. The Major said he spoke the English with the fluency. He demonstrated his delusion when we asked for wood.
"Wood! Ah, but it is impossible that it is wood you ask of me. Have I not this morning early seen with my own eyes the wood ordered?"
"But there is no wood," replied the Captain. "I must have wood for the fires. It is past noon and my men have not eaten."
"Ah, but I am telling you there is wood," replied the Major. "I saw your supply officer pay for the wood. By now I believe it has been delivered for you in the Place de la République."
"But it hasn't," remonstrated the Captain, "and the fires have not yet been started, and——"
"But it is on the way, probably," said the Major. "Maybe it will be there soon. Maybe it is there now."
The Captain took another tack.